


Deny Everything

by MachaSWicket



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Costars AU, F/M, Prompt Response, so meta it hurts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-30
Updated: 2015-03-30
Packaged: 2018-03-20 08:05:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3642840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MachaSWicket/pseuds/MachaSWicket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY:  prompt response for "Olicity and co-stars AU" that got wildly out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deny Everything

**Author's Note:**

  * For [callistawolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/callistawolf/gifts).



> NOTE: This was written for callistawolf's costars AU prompt. :)
> 
> THANKS to youguysimserious and jomarch for actually encouraging this nonsense. ;)
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I feel like this should be more of an apology. The characters are not mine. None of the characters or people alluded to in this story are.
> 
> ART WORK: Beautiful images/edit by [fe-li-ci-ty](http://fe-li-ci-ty.tumblr.com/post/115427602646/deny-everything-by-machawicketwell-shes-crazy)! Thanks so much.

 

As the plane makes its final approach, Felicity shifts in her super-comfy first class seat and stares out the window. It’s her first time flying first class, and she’s not a great flyer under any circumstances, so the strangeness of the luxurious seat and the free booze just adds to her anxiety. She’s incredibly nervous for tomorrow. It’s Felicity’s first real job, and she’s still very skeptical about it.

Well, she’s crazy excited to have booked a pilot after two years of failed -- sorry, _less successful_ \-- auditions, but the premise of the show doesn’t seem like a hit to her. She’s playing an FBI agent whose personal demons drive her to investigate strange cases, while partnered with a skeptic whose background in the hard sciences puts them at frequent odds.

So basically, a gender-swapped X-Files reboot.

She’s torn, because that show had scared the shit out of her as a kid, but reboots and revivals and sequels never seem to capture what everyone loved about the original.

Felicity is both immensely flattered and utterly terrified to have been chosen to play, basically, Foxette Mulder to Oliver Queen’s, like, Daniel Scully. (Their characters’ names are actually Rebecca Casey and Martin “Div” Divney.) She’s pretty excited to be working with Oliver, who’s at least had a few recurring roles on genre shows. She’s greener than green, but he’s got enough industry experience to at least make it _look_ like he knows what he’s doing.

At their network test, he’d been cordial and kind. He’d seemed totally unaffected by her flustered reaction to meeting the network head, just putting a calming hand on her shoulder and adding his own, much less insane greetings. Afterwards, as she released a big, relieved breath when she emerged into the bright, southern California sunshine, he’d called out after her to congratulate her on their successful day. She’d said something semi-incoherent back, and he’d smiled and offered to help her with whatever she needed during the pilot.

Of course, her immediate and highly inappropriate response to his kind offer had been to say, “Really? _Anything_ I need?” And then she’d turned bright red and tried to talk herself out of the innuendo she honestly hadn’t meant. (At least, she hadn’t meant to _vocalize_ it, but yes, okay, Oliver Queen, in addition to being kind and apparently helpful, is _smoking_ hot.)

To his credit, Oliver had simply given her a smirky half-smile and nodded once before turning to leave with a quick “See you in Vancouver.”

She’s thought about it a lot, and she’s curious if the polite reservation she’d sensed from him has anything to do with his very public and very messy breakup with that reality show star, Lauren Something-or-Other, or if she’d offended him with her accidental innuendo. Which would _suck_ if the show got ordered to series and her costar thought she was some sort of lecherous jerk.

But honestly, he’s _ridiculously_ hot, and she gets flustered at the smallest provocation, so on balance, she’s just glad she didn’t say _more_ embarrassing stuff. He’ll hopefully still be nice to her and he’s _certainly_ a treat to look at for hours on end.

She’s not _super_ nervous about Oliver. It’s just… the pilot is being shot in Vancouver. Where Felicity has never been. Far away from everyone in the entire world that she knows.

Not counting Oliver, who she kind of accidentally hit on, and the writer/director, William Tockman, who she... well, it’s not that she _doesn’t_ like him. It’s more that she thinks he might be just a little... off. Tockman has a strangely manic quality that seems very at odds with his aging surfer boy aesthetic, and despite being in his late forties, this show is his first pilot. But this is his project, and no matter how... hmmm, slightly bizarre he may be, Felicity can’t help but be incredibly grateful for the opportunity.

When she walks into her suite in the Vancouver hotel, she finds a cellophane-wrapped gift basket from the executive producer and a surprisingly bright and cheerful bouquet of Gerber daisies. The card attached to the flowers simply says “WELCOME TO VANCOUVER.”

Still anxious about... well, just about _everything_ , Felicity settles in. Instead of sleeping, she spends about three hours watching House of Cards on Netflix, because tomorrow they start filming the show and _holy shit_ she’s going to mess everything up.

It takes her a long time and three benzos to fall asleep that night.

& & &

The first three days of shooting pass in a blur.

Which is good, because it gives Felicity time to get her bearings before they tackle the more emotionally draining stuff on days four and five.

It also gives her time for some exposure therapy to Oliver. He’s still gorgeous and unflappable and friendly, plus now they’re spending all day together, other than breaks between setups. Except even their breaks from shooting aren’t always breaks from each other -- he’s actually asked her to his trailer a couple times to discuss their character interaction. Which she thought _maybe_ was a line at first? But he’s been a perfect gentleman.

So yeah. She’s seeing a _lot_ of Oliver. And, as it turns out, she’s massively and irrevocably attracted to him.

She supposes that’s why their chemistry test for Tockman went so well -- she’d practically drooled on him when they’d run the scene that included a hug. Anyway. Despite his crippling hotness, she’s mostly able to remember her lines and hit her marks despite how very distracting it is having all of his attention focused on her. He has very intense eyes. Gorgeous, intelligent, intense eyes.

Oh, she’s got it bad. But she’s holding it together.

Plus, Tockman seems thrilled with things so far, even if his direction can be a little strange sometimes.

Like the way he asks them to keep their eyes on each other long after it feels natural, like they’re in some sort of strange staring contest. More than once, she’s ruined a take by breaking into giggles, which always seems to amuse Oliver. Tockman, maybe not so much, since it can take her a few minutes to gather her wits once she breaks.

Or how closely Tockman directs her and Oliver to stand when they’re talking, so she’s practically got her nose in his collarbone. She has taken to popping altoids in between takes, since they’re basically breathing on each other; on day two, she notices his breath is suddenly minty fresh, and can’t help the wicked smile she gives him.

At the end of the third day, Tockman invites Oliver and Felicity to the small screening room near his temporary production office to take a look at some dailies. They’re shooting night scenes tomorrow, so no early call. Felicity defers to Oliver, since she has no idea if this is normal or an honor, or maybe an invitation to a discussion on how she needs to stop laughing so much because she’s costing them actual dollars in the form of overtime wages for the crew?

But Tockman simply shows them into the screening room and flips on the projector. The footage is _fascinating_.

Felicity is comfortable seeing herself on film, though there’s still some sort of disconnect in her brain that makes her think she’s watching someone else. But as Tockman shows them the coverage of yesterday’s scene where they argue over her character’s batshit insane theory, Felicity can _see_ it. She can _see_ the energy between herself and Oliver onscreen. And she understands with sudden, stunning clarity, exactly why Tockman has asked them to hold eye contact and stand so very close to each other -- on screen, they look like they’re _desperately_ in love.

Or at least in lust. A _lot_ of lust.

Which, sure, she's actually in a bit of lust with Oliver, but the way he's looking at her onscreen? The way he leans in and focuses and just, basically, eye-fucks her? Well, it looks like he's in a bit of lust with her, too.

Her chest feels all weird and tight, and she concentrates on keeping her breathing steady. But beside her, Oliver seems totally unaffected -- as usual -- his hands pressed flat against his thighs as he watches them on screen.

She risks a glance at his face, and of course he turns his head to meet her gaze. They stare at each other for a long, charged moment, and she knows she’s holding her breath and thinks maybe he’s a little more affected than she’d guessed. Then he lifts an eyebrow before turning back to the screen.

Felicity swallows hard. This is _not_ helping with her inappropriate little crush.

& & &

Felicity has never shot a TV pilot. Although she’s heard horror stories about the circadian disruption of swinging from day shoots to night shoots, this is her first go-round.

And she has _badly_ miscalculated how much sleep she should get during the day in order to stay functional all night. To add to her misery, the scene they’re shooting is in a graveyard (because of course it is), and the script calls for rain. What that means is that Felicity and Oliver have spent four hours being assaulted by the rain machine and the wind machine, leaving them in wardrobe that is soaked to the bone.

It’s really killing her enthusiasm for this admittedly awesome opportunity.

To make things exponentially worse, she’s having the worst time spitting out her dialogue. She just _can’t_ get past the line about the rain and the mud, because she’s freezing and there's fake rain in her face and he’s watching her with a half-smile and even with water dripping down his face in rivulets, he looks handsome.

It takes forever, but when she finally nails the scene, Oliver is beaming at her even before Tockman calls cut. And then she fist pumps and gives herself a little “Whoo!” and before she knows what’s happening, Oliver is hugging her right there in the spray of the stupid rain machine. Her arms are around his neck somehow, and he picks her off her feet and spins her around, and they’re both laughing and she _knows_ it must be delirium from lack of sleep.

When he sets her back on her feet, he’s got the strangest look on his face. Fondness mixed with something she can’t quite identify. She takes an uncertain step back and tilts her head in the direction of craft services. “I think I need more coffee.”

Somewhere around 3:45 a.m. and her fifth cup of coffee, Oliver finds her standing beside the sad, picked over catering spread, shivering in her coat. Because Vancouver in March is cold enough _without_ wearing wet clothes. The heat lamp she’s all but leaning against is doing very little to counteract what she’s almost positive is frostbite on her nose.

“You okay?” he asks, and if she didn’t know better, she’d think he sounded a little uncertain.

She perks up, because her bloodstream is at least 30% caffeine at the moment, and grins at him. “I’m great!” Her voice is a little louder than she meant it to be.

He looks at her strangely. “You know, there’s such a thing is over-caffeination.”

“Is there?” she shoots back, feeling flirty and light and, yes, okay, maybe a little disconnected from reality. But it’s nearly four in the morning and she woke up _sooooo_ long ago, and she’s really tired underneath all the jittery nerves.

Oliver is watching her with this expression -- like, fondness? Bemusement? Whatever it is, it looks great on his stupid face. Just like every other expression. Because his face is _stupid_. “We’ve only got a few more setups,” he says. “Then we can go straight to bed.”

Felicity feels her eyes go wide, and if she wasn’t sure that Oliver was completely unflappable, she’d think he might be blushing a little bit. She nods and focuses on the non-misread-able portion of his statement. “Three more setups,” she agrees. “We can do it!”

He nods once. “Unfortunately, they’re all in the rain machine.”

Felicity gives a legitimate, heartfelt sigh. “I know,” she wails, “do you see this?” She pulls her sad, bedraggled ponytail out to the side. “I must look like a drowned rat.”

Oliver is smiling at her now. Like, an actual full smile. And then he leans in closer and says, “Oh, I don’t know, Felicity. I think you’re much cuter than a rat.”

Before she can do more than stare at him with her mouth agape, Tockman calls them back to set.

Oliver doesn’t look away from her and his smile never wavers. Instead, he simply holds one hand out in the general direction of the rain machine and the camera setup, quirks an eyebrow, and says, “After you.”

Felicity blinks, then tells herself to get a grip. “Thanks,” she says, her voice all strange and high-pitched, but she manages to start moving in the direction of the setup. Oliver is just behind her, and when his hand settles on her lower back, she shivers.

& & &

They wrap the rain machine scene just before sunrise. There’s the slightest lightening of the sky to the east, and Felicity leans against the shuttlebus and watches it blankly. She desperately wishes she was already in bed and has no plans to stick around to watch the sunrise, but as it turns out, she has no energy to do much other than stand there until the driver shows up.

Oliver arrives moments later, looking not at all like someone who spent seven hours getting water dumped on him -- he’s changed into his jeans, a black sweater, and, goddamn, a well-cut charcoal grey leather jacket. He stops just a hair inside her personal space and looks down at her. “Deep thoughts?”

The shuttlebus driver arrives before she can answer, so she climbs in and collapses into the first bench seat. Oliver sits beside her, close enough that when she slouches down a little, her knee touches his.

They sit in a comfortable silence for a couple minutes, while the driver starts up the shuttlebus and glances around. “Guess it’s just you two for this trip,” he says, then pulls away from the location. Felicity can’t remember how long the trip is from here to their hotel, so she just lets her mind drift.

She leans her head back, then rolls it to the side to look at Oliver except, oops, he’s really close to her now and he’s looking right back at her. Felicity takes a breath and says the first thing that comes to mind. “Do you think it’s dangerous to mix benzos with all the caffeine I just had?”

Oliver’s expression is hard to read in the darkness of the car, but his voice is suffused with amusement when he answers, “You’ll be able to sleep.”

“I”m not so sure about that,” Felicity argues, frowning a little. She lifts a hand and, yup, she’s shaking just a little bit. “I’m still be vibrating from the adrenaline.”

He huffs a laugh and shifts beside her, moving closer. His large, warm hand engulfs hers, and he presses it into her thigh. “Here,” he says, tilting his body a little bit toward her. “Just lean on me and close your eyes.”

She hesitates, her stomach doing little flips, but eventually caves. For someone with incredibly muscular shoulders, Oliver makes a pretty good pillow, Felicity thinks, and then she feels his fingers tracing a delicate path along her cheek and jerks awake, blinking. “What?”

Dawn arrived while she dozed, and she can very clearly see the amusement in his expression as he smiles down at her. “We’re here.”

She manages to tear her gaze from him and looks around to find they’ve reached the hotel. “Oh,” she says, stupidly. Her mind feels sluggish and confused. “Good.” Belatedly, she reaches up and touches her lips, making sure she didn’t do anything as unforgivably embarrassing as _drool_ on him.

Oliver steps out of the shuttlebus and waits for her, offering her a steadying hand which she actually does need. “Got it?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she answers, pulling her hand from his grip. “Thanks.” Trying to break through her strange disorientation, she hooks her thumb in the direction of the hotel entrance. “Let’s go to bed.”

Oliver’s grin is instantaneous. “Good plan.”

Felicity can feel the heat in her cheeks. “No, I mean-- Not you and me. There is no _you and me_. Just-- I meant _you_ should get to bed and _I_ should get to bed. Separate beds. Two beds.” She turns on her heel and heads through the automatic doors into the hotel. “I need to stop saying the word _bed_ ,” she mutters.

Oliver rides quietly in the elevator with her, and she is dying to say something to break the unbearable silence, but doesn’t trust herself. As it turns out, they’re both staying on the 17th floor, and she bites the inside of her cheek as they walk down the hallway. Why does it feel strangely like a date all of a sudden?

“Well,” she says, her voice coming out all high and thin and weird, “this is me, so goodnight, Oliver.” She frowns and corrects herself. “I mean good morning, I guess. Technically.”

He’s got just the slightest hint of a smile on his face as he pauses beside her. “Good morning, Felicity,” he murmurs, and then leans down to press a kiss to her cheek. He straightens, looks at her for a half-second longer, then turns to go.

It takes Felicity three tries to get her keycard into the slot. She chooses to blame the caffeine.

& & &

Felicity sleeps for seven hours and wakes up in the bright light of midafternoon. It’s disorienting, this night schedule, and she’s _starving_.

She spends the three hours before her call time taking a long, luxurious _hot_ shower; eating a late-afternoon breakfast; and resolutely _not_ thinking about all the strangeness with Oliver the night before. Because neither one of them have any _time_ for weirdness, and plus she’s absolutely sure she’s misreading the situation.

They have chemistry, for sure, but it’s something generated by their characters. It can’t be Oliver Queen and Felicity Smoak. That’s just… unthinkable.

She does her best to convince herself of this before she catches the shuttlebus back to tonight’s location. She’s both relieved and disappointed when she realizes Oliver’s later call time means he must be taking the later run.

Then she tells herself -- again -- to get a grip.

Which she will need to get through the night’s work, since her night will feature hours and hours of shirtless Oliver. Basically all night.

She’s jittery with more than caffeine when she gets out of hair and makeup and heads to the set. They’re filming in a little motel, and Felicity has some solo coverage to shoot first. It goes well, and she doesn’t break even once. She’s in a groove, and she feels like she _knows_ Rebecca so well and just _gets_ her, and the couple hours go by so quickly she’s grinning when she heads to craft services.

When Tockman calls her back, she’s got a spring in her step and a grin on her face. And then she rounds the corner and sees Oliver, and the butterflies are back before she even registers that he’s doing pushups on the sidewalk outside the room. He’s wearing a t-shirt, and she thinks she might actually be drooling when she watches his biceps tighten and bulge with each repetition.

When she trips over absolutely nothing and stumbles into the wall, he looks up and gives her a grin as he pushes himself upright. “You’re very athletic,” she hears herself saying.

But Oliver just quirks an amused eyebrow. “Evening, Felicity.”

God, she loves the way he says her name. “Oh!” Felicity shakes herself out of such pointless thoughts, moving past him toward the door. “Good evening.”

They enter together and Tockman approaches quickly to explain the scene, using wide, expansive gestures. Which is strange, because it’s supposed to be an intimate, confessional scene. A scene with a lot of sexual tension and, yes, shirtless Oliver.

They run through it a couple times -- Oliver’s character is concerned with a mark on his back that may or may not be alien related -- except that Oliver keeps his shirt on for rehearsals. He’s still standing really close to her, and she’s going to have to put her hands on his bare skin, like, really very soon. But she’s perfectly calm.

Until Tockman yells action.

Waiting on her mark, Felicity can still feel that strange swooping in her stomach. Somehow, she manages not to flub her lines as she ushers Oliver into her room, all concern and intense looks.

It’s not hard to get a little lost in his very pretty eyes.

“Casey,” Oliver delivers his lines with gravity and urgency, and he’s standing well within her personal space, “you have to look at this.” Then he reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and tugs it up and off of his body, and Felicity is actually pretty sure she hears a choir of heavenly angels accompanying the moment, because _holy shit_ , his body is to die for.

Like, his chest is broad and firm and well-muscled, his shoulders are _ridiculous_ , and he’s rocking _more_ than a six-pack. She wants badly to run her tongue over the ridges, which is just massively unprofessional, but the part of her that’s concerned with her job is currently being drowned out by her libido, which is raring to go.

Then Oliver turns his -- _gorgeous_ \-- back to her, and she realizes she has _lines_ and is supposed to be _acting_ , but she simply drinks him in for a long moment, then turns a helpless look to Tockman. “Line?”

The plaintive note in her voice is enough to set about half the crew off into laughter. Even Oliver is smirking when he turns back to her. “You’re supposed to assure me that everything’s okay,” he says. “After you examine my back.”

Felicity nods wordlessly. Examining his body. Sure. Yeah. _Not_ gonna be a problem.

The next take, it’s like something clicks in her brain. Some underlying confidence that she attributes to Rebecca Casey kicks in, and she watches Oliver strip with the same appreciation, except this time she’s not flustered. She’s interested and appreciative, and when he turns his back, she skims her fingertips against his warm skin.

When he hisses, she can’t quite stop the smile.

They shoot their heated interactions over and over, from different angles -- wide coverage, then a two-shot, then each of their closeups. The weird hum of _something_ doesn’t recede. Even between takes, between setups, there’s a buzz of awareness between her and Oliver.

Tockman leaves them alone. He doesn’t have to tell them to step closer together, or to keep their gazes on each other -- now it’s like they can’t _not_ stare. They can’t _not_ stand so close they can feel each other’s body heat.

The hours fly by, and before Felicity knows it, they’re wrapped for the day, and Oliver is walking to their trailers with his t-shirt in his hand, that gorgeous, gorgeous upper body of his shadowed by the dim lights in the parking lot.

They slow as they reach their trailers, seemingly suspended in that strange, tense atmosphere of the scene. Felicity resolutely studies her shoes, looking very much forward to her own clothes. And probably a cold shower.

“So,” Oliver says in this low, kind of throaty tone she’s never heard from him, “that was pretty intense.”

“Mmm,” she agrees, because she doesn’t have the words to really discuss _how badly_ she wanted to throw him onto that motel bed, cameras and crew be damned.

He’s giving her that soft smile, dips his chin once, then steps back. “I’ll let you get changed. See you in a bit.”

Felicity pulls herself into her trailer and unbuttons her perfectly tailored wardrobe with shaking hands. What is she thinking? How is she supposed to handle this unbearable desire to jump her costar’s bones?

She slips into her jeans, t-shirt, and an over-sized hoodie that’s so unattractive, and what was she thinking wearing this to set?

Unlike the previous night, Felicity doesn’t fall asleep on Oliver’s shoulder on the drive back to the hotel. Instead, they sit beside each other in charged silence. Or at least _she_ feels something in the air. A crackle or... something.

And now she’s thinking of cereal commercials and snap, crackle, pop, and she’s giggling, bringing her hands up to her face to muffle her laughter.

“Should I ask?” he murmurs, sounding amused.

She shakes her head, and when she manages to stop laughing, she looks over at him and points to her head. “Just a lot going on in here.”

When Oliver ducks his head to hide a smile, she feels herself leaning towards him and tries to make her body behave. Then he gives her that eyebrow arch and says, so quietly only she can hear, “You’ve definitely got a lot going on.”

Felicity stares at him, mouth hanging open. And then she’s laughing. Like, full-on laughter, because-- “I thought you were suave Mr. Actor Guy,” she manages.

And now Oliver’s laughing with her. “Mr. Actor Guy?” he repeats.

The rest of the ride passes quickly, as they tease each other. Felicity is convinced the strange tension is gone. Convinced that she was imagining any interest on his part. Convinced that long exposure to his _stupid_ abs had fried her brain.

Until, once again, they’ve stopped in front of her hotel room, and Oliver steps into her personal space. Felicity gazes up at him, a little confused and a lot overwhelmed by his nearness. Because they're not filming. They're not trying to bring sexual tension to life on screen. They're just... themselves.

“Felicity,” he says, and his fingers brush against her jaw for a moment, then down the line of her neck as he leans closer.

“Oliver,” she manages, and she’ll probably regret this, but he’s inches away and she’s wanted this for days. So she surges up onto her toes and -- oh. Yes. They’re kissing.

They’re kissing, and his big, warm hands are pressed against her spine, pulling her body to his, and it’s basically _perfect_.

Felicity twines one arm around his neck to keep him close, and fumbles her room key out of her pocket with the other.

& & &

By the time they tumble onto Felicity’s bed, neither of them have many articles of clothing on.

Felicity, who spent several hours both leering at and touching his very toned body, pushes him onto his back and crawls on top of him. She kisses him some more -- because, yeah, they’re _awesome_ at that -- and then uses her lips and tongue and fingers to map his torso.

He’s shifting restlessly under her, already very obviously ready to go, so she moves lower, straddling his thighs so she can spend some quality time with her tongue on his abs. His muscles jump and twitch beneath her mouth, and she can't believe this is real life. His hands are in her hair, his hips lifting up into her touch, and she decides it’s long past time for his pants to come off.

When she reaches for the button, Oliver sits up, and his abs are _insanity_ and she wants to dive back into that treat, but then he’s got his hands on her waist and he basically _flips_ her off of him and onto her back. She’s laughing and massively turned on, and she’s pretty sure she’s mumbling something about him being a showoff.

And when he laughs, she can hear it and also feel in in the puff of warm air against her rib cage.

Oliver spends quite a bit of time learning her body, too. He strips her slowly, leaving hot, wet trails wherever he drags his mouth. He’s -- yeah -- _really_ good with his hands, and by the time his tongue touches her clit, it only takes about thirty seconds for her to come with an enthusiastic and totally unsexy yelp.

When Oliver makes his way up her body, he’s looking at her like he wants to devour her, and she thinks maybe he missed the yelp. Then he’s kissing her again, all tongue and desperation, and she forgot what she was even worrying about. She whimpers into his mouth, wrapping her legs around him, letting her hands trail down his back to his incredible ass.

He groans and leans up, panting as he stares down at her. “Condom?”

“Oh,” she says, and -- _shit_ \-- this is going to be awful. “Um...” Because she certainly didn’t come to Vancouver thinking she’d need condoms. She winces and shakes her head. “Nope. You?”

Oliver makes a truly wounded noise, and drops his face to her neck. “I can’t fucking believe this.” His breath is hot against her skin and it makes her shiver against him, which makes him groan.

“Wait!” Felicity squeezes his ass, and then immediately feels bad about it when he presses his erection against her and grits out her name. “Sorry, sorry. I was just -- room service!”

He lifts his head, and his expression is so undone that it’s kind of amazing? But he takes a calming breath and asks, “You want to call down for condoms?”

She shrugs, and they both make little pained noises at the way her breasts shift against his chest. “They sell them downstairs, right?”

But Oliver pushes himself up and off of her, sitting on the edge of the bed. “Just-- Just give me a minute.” He's hunched over, his hands pressed to his face as he tries to get himself under control.

Felicity can’t resist running her fingertips down his spine, and he glances back at her, his gaze trailing hungrily down her body, his mouth open and his breath still uneven.

So, yeah, it ends up taking him more than a couple minutes before he can tug his jeans and t-shirt on for a condom run.

Felicity starts feeling cool -- and also ridiculous lying around naked in her hotel room by herself -- so she pulls the covers back and gets in the bed. But he’s back more quickly than she expected.

Oliver tugs his t-shirt off before the door even shuts behind him. He steps out of his jeans, already -- or maybe still -- half-hard, and climbs in beside her. Felicity pushes him down and gives him what she hopes is a saucy look. “Get a condom ready,” she says, and then slides down his body to take him in her mouth.

Oliver gasps a little, and pushes up onto his elbows to watch her. She holds his gaze while she works him, and he can only handle it for a few more moments before he’s pulling her up and crushing her mouth to his. “I want to be inside you,” he mutters against her lips.

When she breaks the kiss, she nods enthusiastically and sits up, reaching for the condom. She sheaths him, then lifts her hips and slides him and -- yeah. He’s-- It’s-- It’s _really_ good.

She plants her palms beside his head and leans forward as she moves. His hands trace her body, but seem to gravitate to her ass. He squeezes and lifts his hip up into her movements.

They’re both so wound up it doesn’t take very long for Felicity to lose her rhythm. She arches her back and she’s so close and then Oliver’s mouth is on her nipple, sucking hard, and she’s flying apart. His grip on her ass tightens and he’s thrusting faster into her, and then he’s groaning her name and she collapses forward onto his chest.

“Wow,” she mutters into his sweaty skin. She leans up and licks the scruff along his jawbone. Just because.

His hands tighten on her hips, then move to make soothing loops on her back, now. “Yeah,” he agrees, pressing kisses against her hair.

She’s drowsy and sated, and she barely notices when he rolls them sideways and takes care of the condom.

They settle into a warm, sweaty, happy lump, and Felicity presses kisses into his skin. They should probably talk about this, but she's perfectly willing to have that conversation tomorrow. Because, yeah, it's dawn again and she's exhausted but also kind of exhilarated? And she just wants to drift like this and then sleep for maybe ten hours.

“Felicity?” he murmurs, shifting a little against her, his hand on her hip urging her even closer.

“Yeah?”

“Is it okay if we keep this to ourselves?” he says, sounding a little hesitant. “At least for now.”

“Oh, God, yes,” she answers. “If we get ordered to series, we could...” she trails off, because that’s assuming a lot based on some pretty amazing sex. They'll be done with the pilot in a few days, and heading back to real life in LA for at least a couple months, if not forever. There's no reason to think Oliver has any intention of this... _whatever_... outlasting their time in Vancouver. “I mean--”

“If we get ordered to series, we can figure out the rest,” Oliver says, his hand rubbing slow circles on his back. “But in the meantime, can we figure out you and me?”

Felicity feels warm and fuzzy and post-coital and just basically really fucking awesome. “Absolutely. And if anyone asks--”

Oliver presses a kiss to her temple, and she can hear the amusement in his voice when he answers. “Deny everything.”

END


End file.
